


Turn Your Back On Me

by ratherbehere



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, End!verse, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, Mentions of past pain and scarring., Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherbehere/pseuds/ratherbehere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has scars on his back. Scars that he wants to keep private. That was the plan anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Your Back On Me

Castiel can hear them whispering.

Not that they are being overly subtle about it.

It’s a mystery, and humans apparently love a mystery. They can’t help it. Even now, at the end of the world, or perhaps  _because_  it’s the end of the world, they are fixated on the mystery that is Castiel. Oh, the camp got over him being an angel, fallen or not, pretty quickly. See your friends turn into zombies or get beaten and raped by a demon and you learn to take anything in stride. No, the part that has them hooked is that he never takes his shirt off.

Once people started catching on, once the men and women he’d slept with started exchanging stories, it became obvious that no one had ever seen him take it  _off_. Which is a mystery, because it’s hard to find him with his pants  _on_.

They’re right, of course. He is hiding something. Castiel has fallen, and though he’s doing things his past self would likely not even believe him capable of (drugs, booze, sex) there’s only one thing he’s ashamed of.

The scars on his back.

When he became the mostly human  _thing_  he is now, it wasn’t in the normal manner of falling. He didn’t rip out his grace and fall to Earth to be reborn.  No, he went through a transformation no angel had ever gone through before, and will never go through again. Thank God. Or, well, thank  _someone_  anyway. It had been horrendous: his forms, his states, the physical and the metaphysical, flesh and grace, shifted and molded, blended and unblended, and when his grace had finally dried up, the end result was a 99% human Castiel with a red, scared, gnarly and grotesque back where his wings used to be.

They were his mark of shame. They were his reminder of failing. Failing to save everyone, failing to be what everyone needed him to be. They were the mark of everything he lost. The horrific look of their appearance was equal to the horror of the crimes he committed against heaven that put them there. He hated them, hated everything they stood for, and no one was to ever know that they were there. He had forsaken all privacy, all sense of shame amongst humanity. They could let him have this one thing. They didn’t need to know what he gave up, what he suffered, in choosing humanity. In choosing Dean. It was  _private_.

That had been the plan anyway, but the sound of boots crunching on the ground behind him had him freezing in the moonlight, thumbs tucked into the edge of his pants, about to pull them down and step into the water. He doesn’t bathe often, but he makes sure to head to the river only in the dead of night, when the whole camp is asleep.

The whole camp is  _supposed_  to be asleep, but the sharp intake of breath behind him confirms that not only is someone intruding, but that the moonlight is strong enough that they can see  _everything._

“Cas…” they say quietly, awed and horrified.

Of course.

Castiel isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not.

He doesn’t move, frozen, waiting, hoping Dean flees from the sight of his back.

But Dean never does what he wants him too, and so instead, Dean steps closer.

“Fuck,” Dean says quietly and Cas inhales sharply with a shiver as fingertips ghost over the skin on his back. Not only has no one ever touched him there, but Dean has certainly never touched him so gently before  _anywhere_. It’s too much, and he spins before he’s even processed everything, capturing Dean’s wrist in a tight grip.

“You,” Castiel growls, “do not get to touch me there.”

Dean looks surprised and maybe even vulnerable. But Dean never looks vulnerable these days, and so Castiel thrusts his hand away and turns back around.

“If you don’t mind, I was in the middle of something,” Castiel spits out as he slides his pants and underwear off. Without a backward glance, he walks straight into the water. He dunks himself under and emerges to take a deep, calming breath as the cool water runs down his skin. Dean is watching him from the bank and Castiel wishes he would leave already.

Which is of course why Dean starts taking his own clothes off.

Castiel tries to pretend that it doesn’t bother him, that he doesn’t even notice.

He hears Dean follow his actions, submerging himself briefly, a short distance from Castiel, before coming  back up. Tense silence follows while Castiel finds himself waiting again.

“When?” Dean finally asks, breaking the silence.

“What?” Castiel asks, eyes dropping to the water. He knows what Dean is asking.

“When did those scars happen, Cas?”

Castiel toys with the idea of lying, but he’s never been very good at it, and Dean will figure it out anyway, once he thinks about it. So he says, “When I broke my ankle.”

There’s a pause, and Castiel can hear Dean’s brain putting the pieces together. “All that screaming… you wouldn’t let anyone near you… I thought you were just whining about your broken ankle. I called you a baby for months.” There’s a pause as Dean processes the memories. “Shit Cas.”

Castiel has nothing to say to that. Dean’s called him a baby and a child too many times for it to matter anymore.

He hears Dean shuffle closer, the water rippling between them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Castiel snorts at that. “Would you have cared? You  _are_  the reason it happened.”

Cas is startled when hands wrap around his upper arms. It’s gentle at first, but when Cas jerks and moves to break the contact, they tighten, halting the movement.

“Dean…” Castiel growls in warning as he fights the grip.

The grip shifts and suddenly Dean’s arms are circling him tightly, pinning his arms to his sides, his back flush to Dean’s chest. He fights the hold, too similar to a hug, brings his hands up to pry at Dean’s strong arms as they thrash in the water before he gives up and his body goes slack.

Dean is panting slightly from the struggle, his breath glossing over his ear. It’s so close, it’s too much, and Castiel’s heart is pounding in his chest and it has nothing to do with drugs. Why won’t Dean leave him be?

“Do you really hate me so much Cas?” Dean whispers, his breath tickling.

How does one even begin to answer that question? How does  _Castiel_  begin to answer that question? He _should_  hate Dean, but it’s far too complicated. Except that it’s really not. And that’s the hard part.

“If only I could,” he says softly into the moonlight.

Dean’s arms loosen just enough for the embrace to feel warm and comfortable instead of crushing. Then warm lips are pressed into his shoulder and Castiel can’t breathe. This is completely new. New and confusing and thrilling and he doesn’t think he can handle it because it can’t last. This isn’t Dean anymore, if it ever was in Dean to be so gentle. Yet here he is, holding Cas and pressing soft kisses into his damp, goose-pimpled skin. On his shoulder, behind his ear, Dean’s nose nuzzling his hair. Slow, careful.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says in between presses, “I’m so sorry.”

Castiel can feel the air change and shift as the kisses continue and Dean loosens his embrace. He slides his hands, touching and caressing Castiel’s chest, smoothing over the planes of his body. Castiel leans his head back on Dean’s shoulder and closes his eyes, melting into the ministrations, while Dean takes advantage of the new angle to suck tenderly at his exposed neck.

Dean’s right hand continues exploring south, into the water, and Castiel can’t help the moan that breaks the silence when Dean palms his rapidly hardening cock.

“Mmmm Dean,” Castiel says, wiggling his hips instinctively, feelings Dean’s answering erection slide and press against his skin. “What-“

“Shhhh, let me,” Dean mumbles next to his ear before taking the soft lobe into his mouth to suck gently at it, and Castiel doesn’t want to fight any more. He doesn’t even remember what he was fighting against. He brings his right hand up to glide through Dean’s damp hair, resting on the back of his head as Dean continues to suckle at his neck.

Dean’s caressing his cock, playing with it gently, moving his hips and sliding his own cock against Castiel’s skin, and it’s all too much. Not physically, of course. Castiel’s done far too much for a simple hand job and some rutting to make him lose it completely. It’s who’s behind the touches, who’s worshiping his flesh, apologizing with kisses and soothing with caresses. Dean’s speaking a language beyond words, similar to the language Castiel has sought with countless men and women, but it’s completely different. The difference between crude, flawed English and graceful, perfect Enochian.

Every slow stroke is an apology, every careful thrust is compassion, every kiss is a promise, and every press of his shame to Dean’s chest is absolution.

It’s slow and unhurried, partially because their position in the water isn’t the most elegant, but mostly because neither is in a rush to the finish line. This is beyond a simple orgasm. The emotion, the sensation, the meaning all coalesce with the physical, and it’s too powerful, too much. He cries out soundlessly when he comes, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed, trembling in Dean’s embrace. Dean bites his shoulder as he shudders and stills behind him.

Dean rests his head on Castiel’s now marked shoulder, breathing deeply and resting some of his weight on Cas, who is resting some of his back on Dean. They are their own keystone.

When their heart rates begin to slow down, Dean again breaks the silence with a question. “Was it worth it?” he asks. “If you could do it all over again, would you still choose my path over Heaven?”

Cas has asked himself this many times, and just like Dean’s earlier question, the answer is shockingly simple.

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from ladyofthesilent on tumblr. Credit for the title goes to castielsmitesyou, also on tumblr.


End file.
